


Midnight Memories

by NicoleMAbrahamson_AResidentGhost



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 05:13:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5772592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NicoleMAbrahamson_AResidentGhost/pseuds/NicoleMAbrahamson_AResidentGhost





	Midnight Memories

               It all started with my death.  Yes, you heard right—I am dead.  Or at least I _was_ dead.  And despite what Monsieur Stoker would have you believe, vampires are not bothered by holy water, crosses, or killed by sunlight.  The vampire’s power is diminished by that fiery orb, causing them to become weak and semi-mortal, and therefore, most prefer to sleep by day for that reason—and not because they have to.  What good would being immortal be if one could not get some sleep once and a while?  Plus, it makes it much easier for one to fit in better with society if one is not restricted to the night solely.  And as I have learned, even before my _becoming_ , the better one fits with society, the less attention one garners, and the more able you are to escape pursuers.  Plus, the more that would-be hunters and slayers believe that odd myth, the more we are likely to survive.  
               It all would have been good and all, but I would still, even with the life I have lived after my _becoming_ , have rather _stayed_ dead.  My life was hell, made no lighter by the very nature of my demonic appearance—even when I was alive.  However, one of the strange new abilities that came with my _becoming_ was an ability to “project” an image different than my true features that other people see—they see a handsome young man instead of a walking corpse, a figure for which I earned nothing but derision my whole life—excluding the small glimmer of hope, fragile as crystal, brought by the hope for love from such a lovely creature, my Christine, but dashed to pieces by the fact that I knew she would never be happy with me, and I therefore let her go.  Born a freak, died a freak, and shall forever be a freak, doomed to forever be hated—but not if I can help it.  I shall have the love forever denied to me—one way or another—be it by force or by deception, I do not really care, for to live forever with no hope or hint of love is no life at all.  Granted a second chance at life, however unwillingly, through a kiss and a baptism of blood.  Damned?  I should hope not.  If so, then be it for my past deeds and not for something I had no choice in or chance to refuse.  I know, having been baptized at birth a Catholic although I fell out of favor with the idea of God, that I would already have been suitably damned by my previous deeds in the hell that could be called of my life, and then I would perhaps already be burning in the fiery pits of hell.  Or is this eternal un-life to be my eternal damnation?  My sire, I believe, now goes by the name of “Alucard”, but of what should I care about that?  Especially now that I can have whatever I want now—even, as I have said before, a semblance of normalcy, something I’ve always wanted and longed for.  
  
               I was on my deathbed, you could say.  Having lived for over 150 years was no easy task—especially for someone who looks like me or is like me—a human hybrid.  A hybrid of what, I never knew, only that it came from my _real_ mother’s side.  I was the son of a sorcerer whose talents ran along the lines of necromancy and healing, and it was rumored throughout my childhood near Rouen that he had briefly consorted with a pagan goddess of death, others a demon, and still others, a vampire.  Whatever she was, she was not human, but was able to pass off as one.  When I was born, I was often thought to be God’s retribution for my father’s magic by the townsfolk.  Shortly after my birth, however strange as it may seem, my _real_ mother disappeared with the ominous threat of harm to anyone that thought to kill me before my appointed time.  This certainly scared my father and his wife, one of his many lovers that he quickly married for propriety’s sake after my mother left, as they loved to remind me as I grew up during what I term my stay with them.  Together, they had many children—but no heirs.  I was the only male that my father ever sired.  
               At this point, I was old, tired, weary, and world-sick, you could say.  One hundred fifty years is a long time for anyone to live, much less on often described as a monster, and I was sick of the hatred and pain directed at me.  One would think someone like me, exposed to such feelings from early on, would eventually not be affected by such emotions, actions, and words.  A very alluring, black-haired, bespectacled man—even though I still find it odd, even strange, that such a charmer would waste his time on me—appeared at the side of my coffin-bed as I was about to take my last breath.  
               Almost hypnotically, which angered me that such a man should be able to do such a thing that I have practiced throughout my lifetime, he asked in a slightly Eastern accent, “How would you like to liver forever?”  I could barely speak to answer him or nod, as I was too weak to draw in any deep breaths.  I was, therefore, given no choice in the matter—the man, the _stranger_ , chose _my_ destiny for _me_ , and this still angers me when I think about it.  I suddenly felt something cold, like death, and sharp as needles puncture my thin, yellow, clammy skin and the feeling that I had was that of my life draining away even faster than before.  After this, I felt something warm—and strangely pleasant—roll down my throat filling the rapidly growing emptiness.  I was dying, and I knew that I would soon myself under the scrutiny of that being that judges all souls, and surely be cast into hell.  Finally becoming too tired to even stay aware of the changes happening both around and inside of me, I let everything go and fell away from life—that may sound strange, but it’s the only way I can describe how it felt to finally die.  I was dead, as I had announced in _L’Epoque_.  
                
               When I woke again, he was gone.  I was left alone, as I have always been, and I believe I shall always be, seemingly new to the world and more confused than I’ve ever been before, but also angry and powerful, more so than I could ever imagine.  One word stayed in my mind:  I was a vampire, but I am still Erik.


End file.
